In Pale Blue Ink
by CSI Haylz
Summary: Kyle writes to Horatio about the horrors of war as he nears the end of his tour in eastern Afghanistan. Beware of gory descriptions - if you're squeamish you might want to pass on this.


**Hi everyone. I have not forgotten about Skeletons, and I am so sorry for the hiatus, but I can assure you that the last chapter of it will be posted soon. I watched Countermeasures today and was disappointed - no Kyle! So wrote something to compensate :) It has only been redrafted once so there may be errors - but I was so desperate to post it, and I think it should be a little rough. But i guess I'll see what you guys think :)**

**Reviews - especially with criticism/advice - are love. Please help me to write better stories for you guys :)**

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><p>2302/2011  
>Kabul, Afghanistan<p>

Dad,

I finally have some quiet time to write to you. Things have been pretty busy – but you could probably tell that when I stopped writing to you.

I'm okay. I guess you could say that I've been lucky, having not sustained many major injuries. Cuts and bruises at most – no impressive war wounds to show off as of yet. Still the plain, boring old Kyle that you know and love.

There's been a lot of bad days since my last letter. Most of them have involved IEDs. Recently, we were on a routine patrol, and Max lost both his legs. In a split second. I was only roughly one-hundred metres away from him. The explosion knocked me off my feet, but I got up and reached Max first, started tourniquets… we saved his life. But I know I'll never be able to forget the sight of him lying there, practically melted into the ground, body black and pink and streaked with pearlescent fat. His muscles constricting in the heat and shrinking his body, bubbles of fat popping and fizzing – he'd always joked that he needed liposuction. And the smell – it was just liked cooked meat, but knowing what it actually was just made you retch uncontrollably. He screamed – he wouldn't stop screaming, and I thought it was the worst thing I'd ever heard. But when he stopped and his head lolled to the side, the silence was deafening; you just _knew_ that his life was in danger. As if you couldn't already tell, with chunks of his flesh surrounding us, seeping blood and plasma.

Another day a small group of us were ambushed. One of the locals had tipped off the Taliban, and we walked straight into a trap. We were passing through an area of little cover when they opened fire. Bullets rained down on us, heavy and thunderous, ricocheting with lethal energy. We all ducked for cover but were in no position to fire back: in our panic we had all taken cover wherever we could, and the group had split up completely. A few of us had sustained bullet grazes (I have a lovely, fat scab on my upper left arm), but no serious injuries. And then out of the blue another platoon arrived and pushed the enemy back, providing us with an escape route. We just couldn't believe it, and it sure as hell didn't sink in how lucky we'd been until a fair few hours later.

After a while, you wonder how lucky you can get. Literally inches from death, and we still all escape – whole. I could've stood on that IED that took so much away from Max, and could've been killed or had my life permanently changed – potentially yours, too. And that's what happens over here. Lives are changed in a heartbeat.

But we are making a difference. And I see it every time we go on patrol. When we first got here, there was a village completely devoid of people. It was an absolute ghost town. But now, due to _us_, people are actually living there, because we make the area _safer_. We're bonding with the locals, too. People are realising that we are here to bring about peace, because it's not fair that any country – or _anyone_ – should have to deal with such suffering, while others at opposite ends of the world live a rich and luxurious life because they happened to be born there.

There's only about two-hundred people living in the village, but there's a small school and a few basic amenities. I actually organised a football match between the schoolchildren and the platoon. It was great – those kids really needed some decent competition (they were surprisingly good) and it gave us all a well needed afternoon off. It's funny how you don't realise the meaning of anything until it's stripped away from you – especially the moments where you can forget everything and just be yourself and be free. Not to think about the heavy responsibility that weighs on your shoulders.

Thank you, Dad. Thank you so much for all those times when you've made me feel safe, or made me laugh. The day you took me in was the best thing that ever happened to me – I really mean that. You've taught me how to be an honest man; responsible, loyal and to believe in the right thing. I honestly can't thank you enough for giving my life the value that it has now. I am who I am because of you.

I know my tour is coming to an end and I will see you again – feels like a lifetime, doesn't it? I know I've changed. I think you will have too, if only slightly. You see more throughout a day in your job than most people do in their lives. You'll have to let me in on the secret – pass the knowledge down to the next generation, eh? Something like that, anyway.

I have to go. Dinner is in five. I miss you, Dad. You're all I have left. I want you to know that I'm fighting. I'm fighting so hard, I really am. Because all I want to do is make it home to you, and I promise you I am doing all I can to make sure that happens. Make sure you keep fighting, too.

I love you, Dad. If by any chance I don't make it home, please don't blame yourself. I knew what I was getting myself into. You did nothing wrong. In fact, you couldn't have been a better father to me. You are by far the best man I know – helping people on the worst day of their lives. I respect the hell out of you for it, so make sure you carry on no matter what. People need you to keep making that difference to their lives – just like you did to mine.

Kyle


End file.
